The Last Days of Evan Hansen
by Enigmatic Insignia
Summary: The near death of classmate Connor Murphy inspires Evan Hansen to create a list of goals for his life—fifteen things to do before the year ends, to ensure that he's truly living. It's definitely not a bucket list. Not at all. First person POV, AU. Previously listed as Insincerely, Me.
1. 0 Days Until

January 2nd of Senior Year

Dear Evan Hansen,

Today is going to be a good day, because, it's the last version of this day you have. Day zero to. Every single day that passes, when it's over, you never have to go through it again. This one a little more than most. You're doing your first solo camping trip—a test run at Ellison State Park. And once you do it, it's done. Not just the first time. The only. It's always the only time you have to do something, and this…

It's weird to consider, how so many people are so afraid of dying, that it stops you from living. It stops you from literally anything. Maybe, I wonder, if that's why so many people my age, they don't realize there's such a thing as becoming their parents. Or their grandparents. Or overdosing, or car accidents, or getting struck by lightning bolts holding an umbrella in an open field. Maybe that's why my classmates, they talk about school shootings like they're a joke. It isn't real to them. It can't be. If it was real. If death was real, then, they'd never do anything. They'd never even try.

Except you. You tried. Somehow, for some reason, you did. For real. Wow. Even though you know what's coming. Because you knew.

The last time you wrote one of these and were really, truly honest, it changed everything. A good luck charm, sort of. Even though it didn't feel like it, back then. Except, someone saw this one. No one can see this one. Because, really, the only thing worse than existing, is making someone else realize you couldn't in a way where they blame themselves. Even though it's not their fault. At all. Even though it has nothing to do with mom. Or Connor or Jared or Miguel. Or Zoe. Or dad, if he even notices. It's just you. They might think that, and they can't. They just can't.

Okay, Jared wouldn't think it's his fault. Never mind. But, everyone else, they can't know. So, Eliza Hamilton-ing myself. Burning the letter. Light the match, one spark, and, then, it's over. It's all over. Finally. You don't have to do this, anymore.

You don't have to do anything at all

Sincerely,

Me


	2. 118 Days Until

September 4th of Senior Year

Dr. Sherman's office smelled like Thai food.

I don't know why. Maybe it was that box poking out of the trash, buried under all those crumpled tissues. I assumed they were from the patient before me.

The tissues, not the Thai food. Or, I assume not. The last patient wouldn't have brought food. Patients never bring food. That's not a thing that people do in therapy, is it? Eat with your therapist?

This wasn't what I was supposed to be thinking about.

Anyway, it smelled like those spicy noodles with those vegetables I can't quite remember the name of right now. I'm pretty sure it was Thai food and not, like, Chinese or Vietnamese because the wording on the box looked like the instant Trader Joe's Thai noodle boxes—you know, for those people who're just a little bit too good for instant ramen, but just as pressed for time?

I knew I was supposed to be doing something else. I was supposed to watch my therapist. Listen. Engage. I wanted to. But I couldn't. Not as much as I should have. Not when I kept smelling it across the room.

At least I wasn't smelling my own sweat this time. I'm pretty sure I was sweating. because he kept looking like he expected me to say something.

When that clearly wasn't doing anything thanks to the trash can, he tried talking, instead. "Evan?" Unlike me, he'd technically succeeded in talking.

Dr. Sherman's pen tapped against his clipboard in time with a measured, intentionally patient patient prodding, like he'd done this a million times, probably because he had. He looked pretty much exactly the way that you'd expect for a therapist to look when you call someone a therapist, or possibly a college professor. Mister Rodgers sweater, big glasses, that sort of thing. Except he had what I think I'd heard one of his other patients in the waiting room call Bob Ross hair, once.

"It's okay. We're here to talk, or to not talk, about whatever you do or don't want to talk about. Whatever you're comfortable with," was what Dr. Sherman said. What he meant, he was never going to say. He was paid not to.

I, with my usual insight, forced out a sentence. Or, it was supposed to be a sentence. What it actually ended up as was "…Yeah. It's. I know that's, how. Yeah."

I folded further over myself, slouching into the fraying, beige and gray splotched couch of his office. My right hand pulled at the bottom of my shirt. The trash can was staring back at me. It was easier watching garbage than it was Dr. Sherman. The trash can wasn't there to figure out what was wrong with me, when, maybe, it would've been a harder question to ask what was right.

"Did you remember to bring one of your motivational letters, today? I'd like to see one," he asked through that same measured, patient, probably rehearsed kind of tone. "It might seem silly, but, the most important thing you can do for yourself is to change the way you're thinking about things. Give yourself a new perspective?"

In a way, he was sort of right. Writing that letter to myself earlier today in the computer lab had given me a new perspective on the floor. And it was going to keep giving, new, terrible perspectives on how much of a horrible, freakish, broken bother I was to everyone around me whenever they stopped to recognize I was alive. Except, that isn't the sort of thing that you get to say to a therapist, so, instead, I'd said "Yeah, no, I. I've, I wrote one," which, while technically true, was also wrong enough not to impose.

I must've paused a little too long, because Dr. Sherman tapped his pen again. He made a quick scribble I couldn't recognize as he spoke. "If it's easier, you don't have to talk about it, yet. I can read—"

I didn't know what I was saying when the chain of "No, no, no—" first spurted out of me. I shook my head in a twitch, my shoulders scrunching up to my ears in the effort to maybe, potentially figure out a way to merge with the couch entirely, if only because that'd mean not being a disappointment for that, too. "I mean obviously you can read, you're. That's not. You're literate. Literally. Literally literate. That's not—" I choked on my breath, mangled non-words stammering into nothing but a gulp of dread.

Whatever I said to Dr. Sherman, it usually got back to mom. It wasn't supposed to, he said, but he probably told her that, too. Besides, if I talked about Connor Murphy, and Connor stealing my letter after picking a fight, that meant talking about why the letter would upset Connor, which meant talking about Zoe, and what right in the world did I have to bring Zoe Murphy, a girl with no reason to know me now and every reason to never know me, into any of this? So, I paused. I paused, clutched my arm, and I stalled until I could think of something, anything, else.

"You said ninety percent of conversation—" I wrung the bottom of my shirt even tighter through the stammer, collapsing at what was maybe at least a forty degree angle. "Communication. Ninety percent of communication is non-verbal, right? The stuff you say while you're saying it? So it's better, if I read it, with the, saying the things I mean to say?"

All I'd heard as validation from Dr. Sherman was a mildly perplexed "yes," clearly as confused by what I'd settled on as I was. He even tucked his pen into the top of his clipboard. "If that's what you'd prefer, of course. I'd love to hear you say what you wrote, Evan."

There'd probably been a better excuse I could've come up with.

Shit.

"Would you like to get the letter out, Evan?" Dr. Sherman asked over again, because I was sitting there all scrunched up instead of taking out a letter I, supposedly, had. "Whenever you're ready?"

I let go of the shirt, let in a breath, and let out nothing but a stammered. "Yeah. …great. I, here."

I leaned further over and flipped through my backpack—through the books, notebooks, textbooks and one leftover guide to state park regulations that I really had no reason to have with me right now—as if any of them were going to help me. Dr. Sherman's magnified, dark eyes stuck at the back of my neck, expectant.

I took out a spiral notebook, one of the fresh ones, from a class I wouldn't have until Tuesday so there was nothing in it yet, and clutched it, instead. The paper crinkled, rustling under the internal earthquake that was me existing here, now, under a microscope of someone professionally paid to pick you apart.

Maybe there was a better way to put that. Except I couldn't tell, because I was barely capable of holding the paper. I raised my other arm to gently stabilize the notebook against the cast, if only so I could look down at the blank lines and try to somehow picture what would have been there, if I'd found the words the first time.

"Dear Evan Hansen, today is going to be a good day because. Because, it's the first day of school, so, there's, lots of—" I shook my head as rapidly as possible, flinched at the speed I'd moved at, and focused on the grain of the faux wood tiles instead of whatever was coming out of my mouth. "—Lots of people and stuff and new textbooks, before anyone puts those stretchy covers on so, then, later, you can make them, if you want. Or not. And, there's English. Class. Or, the language, which you speak at people."

I would've kept going, probably, had Dr. Sherman not cut me off with another "…Evan?"

I snapped my head upright and flopped backwards into the couch cushions. My arm wrapped around the notebook. "I'm not, with—"

Any effort to defend myself was cut off with Dr. Sherman's deep breath. He'd say he was breathing, but it was a sigh. A pitying sigh. It was the kind of patience people used not because they were actually, genuinely patient, but because they knew there was something seriously wrong with the person they were speaking to. "It's okay to say you didn't finish your letter. I know, it's hard. If it wasn't going to be a challenge, I wouldn't have asked you to try it."

"But, I did. I…"

"There's nothing on that paper, Evan," Dr. Sherman pointed towards the notebook.

"I did. It's not." I wrapped my arm around it tighter, or, at least, as tight as having one functional arm would allow. The pages crinkled against the cast, shaking along with the rest of me. "You see, I left it, in the other bag, in the lab. My other, at, at the printer class place…"

"At school?"

"Yeah! Yes. School. There being," I should have let go of the notebook. Instead, I clutched it tighter. "You see, I got. There was a distraction. I did. I had it. Letters. Letter. Singular letter. It just, I got a call from my mom, and we were talking, and walking, and I forgot to, on the way. I can mail it to you tomorrow, once—when I'm back there? At school? Where. Where the printer is?"

Dr. Sherman didn't move while I was talking. All he did was pick his pen right back up, click it, and scribble as he spoke. "It's okay, Evan. Let's focus on something else. Anything you want." It was the nice way of saying I'd failed. Again.

What kind of person went to a therapist, and couldn't stop examining the repeating faux wood grain or a literal pile of garbage on the other side of the room, because they knew how much of a bother it would be to be honest when there was no real way to fix it? In my head, I could see it all over again—this afternoon in the computer lab, with Connor Murphy, in my face, shouting that I was a freak.

I must've been staring off for a while, because, the next thing I new, Dr. Sherman had cleared his throat to ask as loud as he could while still technically counting as conversational. "Well, then. I'll try. Who's Connor?"

A throb of adrenaline sent my pulse through my ears. I snapped upright in disbelief I'd even heard that. "What? Who? He, who?"

"The name? It's written there, on your arm." Dr. Sherman pointed downwards, his eyes following the same path. I drooped down to spot what he was talking about. He smiled positively—not fake encouraging, but actual, blatantly misinterpreting positivity, which made my stomach twist all the more. "Is he a friend of yours?"

I twitched my head, shaking my hair and crinkling my nose through the shudder of a "…Yeah?"

At least, Dr. Sherman hadn't seemed to notice the doubt part, because he kept on going with what he'd wanted to hear, instead. "That's great, that you're able to see someone. See, that's exactly the sort of thing I want you to focus on when you do your next letter. Today's going to be a good day, because I'm going to see my friend Connor. Does that make sense?"

I nodded, in part because I could, and mostly because if I'd tried to open my mouth with all the nerves I had a feeling I was going to make sounds not meant to come out of a human. Dr. Sherman made another note with his pen, still smiling, and skipped right along to the next item on his mental mental patient checklist. "Good. So, how have you been feeling, lately?"

Like that wasn't a question I should answer.

Instead, I'd said, "Fine," and then corrected it to "Well," in the sense of stalling for time, and added "Well?" again, meaning it in the healthy way, not that he could tell the difference. Thankfully, he also hadn't noticed.

"Compared to last month, better, then? The new dose is a little more comfortable?" Dr. Sherman looked towards his wrist as he was speaking, checking the time on his watch.

I'd started off nodding my head, and had continued to do so for a good ten seconds, followed up with another pretty horrible twenty five seconds, then stopped. Naturally, that was when he started to look back, and I could barely piece together a babble that I thought sounded anywhere close to convincing. "Yeah. I think. I know? I think I know. I don't, know I'd know if I wasn't, though, you," I pressed my right palm down against my thigh, wiping my hand off over and over. "I'm sorry. That's not."

"Don't worry about me, Evan, I have nothing to do with this. We're here for you. I'll put in a refill for the Klonopin," Dr. Sherman sounded as if he was agreeing, except he hadn't asked a question this time, so it was more that he'd decided for himself and I was just kind of there watching blankly with a crumpled notebook, and soggy hands, and a black hole where my gut was supposed to be. "I'll see you next week? With a letter, this time, I hope?"

"Yeah. I," I bobbed my head so rapidly, it sounded as if I'd stuttered even when, for, once, I was pretty sure I hadn't. "I promise."

I already knew I was going to regret that.


	3. Zoe

**ZOE**

The first day of school was fine. It was as good as any other day. That sounded a lot better than it felt to live it.

Most people were supposed to hate school, but as I stood here, squinting down at my phone under the pressing fluorescent lights of a 7-Eleven, I wished I was still there. At school, I had a reason not to check my texts. I could keep my head down, my smile fixed, and let everything else go ignored. Most people at school either didn't notice me, or they could tolerate me, and the problems there weren't that big. At least incompetent teachers, gossip, and pizza so greasy that if you tilted it diagonally you could create a puddle on your lunch tray, those were normal issues. If someone threatened to kill you at school, the teachers had to do something, or they'd get sued. At home, if someone threatens to kill you, you're still expected to care about them, because you share the same parents.

To be more specific, the someone, in this case, was my brother, Connor. Connor was the one that everyone noticed, or remembered. Outside of jazz band, and the people I knew through jazz band, I was pretty much universally known as 'the freaky kid's sister'. That said, it was still easier to have the reputation of being freak adjacent than to be at my house spending time with him, so, I avoided that any way I could.

Once the school year had really started, I'd have band rehearsals, and movie club, and I could do stage crew with the theater department. But, since today was the first day back, my options had come down to hanging out with Olive Kinsey, the first chair saxophone player in both jazz band and regular band, and her friend Lyle Sherman, who handled our audio equipment. We'd grabbed some Slurpees, gathered around the counter, and shared stories about our summers that we seemed way more invested in telling than hearing.

When Olive started to brag about meeting a violinist from the New York Philharmonic who had come to stay at her grandmother's Bed and Breakfast that summer, I sipped on my blue raspberry Slurpee and checked my phone. As soon as I'd swallowed, I deflated. The trail of messages from my mom was too depressing not to sigh at.

Mom: Honey Bunch, do U kno where your brother is? Your father's already home... and we can't find him anywhere! Did he seem upset at school? Also, can you get milk on the way home?

For some reason, mom had decided that it required multiple of any punctuation marks in text to get the point across faster. I ignored the question of if Connor seemed upset, if only because Connor always seemed upset, and focused on the part that I could handle.

Zoe: No, he didn't tell me. I'm at the store, now. I'll get it.

I pocketed my phone, turned to my friends Lyle and Olive, and raised a hand to signal that I had to talk. "Just a second, guys. I'll be right back." Then, I left behind the sticky countertop beside the Slurpee station, and paced towards the back of the store. My thumb ran along the edge of my phone case, over and over, matching the rhythm of the radio station crackling in the background.

Such a bright, busy place wasn't supposed to be the closest thing a person could get to peace, and yet, here I was. How depressing was it, to know that the only real control that I, or any teenager, had over our lives was to avoid everything wrong, without any good way to fix it? My dad controlled my allowance, and wouldn't sign off for me to get a job even if I'd wanted one. My mom set every appointment, and our menu, and picked out our clothes. My school district, my room, my doctor, my car—none of it was my choice.

I could run, though, if I'd wanted to. Some teenagers did run away. It was possible. I could run a lot farther than the milk aisle of a 7-Eleven. I wondered if my brother would be less likely to drink a whole gallon of milk in one day if I got skim instead of two percent on 'accident'.

My debate with myself was interrupted by the squeak of Lyle's sneakers approaching the milk aisle. I reached inside the case, picked up a gallon of two percent, and tugged on the straps of my backpack to put some distance between us.

The instant before the glass door would have swung shut, Lyle thrust his hand between the case and the door. He reached over his shoulder, drawing a smiley face with his finger on the glass while he spoke. "You know what they should really make, here, though?"

Despite the fog building on the opposite side of the glass, I could still see Olive's forehead crease and nose ring crinkle. "At least fifteen dollars an hour, I think. Right? Minimum wage?"

I took a few more steps back, away from them both, and nodded to Olive. "Yeah. But it's thirteen fifty, this year."

Lyle waved his hand in front of himself, ignoring how little we cared. "Okay. Okay. Yeah, that, too. We all like money. But, I mean, like, drink wise? What should they make?"

Olive pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. "You're going to tell us even if we don't ask, aren't you?"

I set the milk back down on the counter, and picked up my Slurpee in both hands. I twirled the straw, mixing the melted bits back in while I answered, too. "He's totally going to tell us."

Lyle raised his voice over mine, almost proclaiming the idea. "Apple cider!" He looked down to us both, expecting some sort of congratulations. When he didn't get one, he just shook his head and went on anyway. "Seriously, though, just, like, picture it. Except not a picture, because apple cider is all tan and it looks gross. But, like, taste it. In your head."

Olive's hand still hadn't moved away from her nose. She just pinched it harder. "I don't think that's how you say that, either, Ly."

"No, dude. Your tongue is part of your head so it totally counts."

Olive took a step closer to Lyle. They were so close that her head was practically touching his when she repeated slower. "Ly, when people say do something in your head, they don't mean, with your mouth. They mean your brain."

"…But you don't give someone head with your brain."

Since this didn't involve me, I picked up the milk and started to head for the counter. I had just put the milk down in front of the cashier when I heard Olive's voice getting closer. "Why do we hang out with you, again?"

I didn't bother peeking, both because I could assume it had nothing to do with me, and because Lyle answered seconds later, anyway. "Free comedy. Also, I raise your self-esteem by proxy because just knowing me is twenty percent more awesome."

The cashier had tried to ask me if I wanted paper or plastic, but before I could answer that, Olive set a hand on my shoulder to pull my attention to her, instead. "Zoe, what's wrong? You're quiet. Even more than usual, even."

From the corner of my eye, I could spot that Lyle was setting down the money for the milk, instead. I tried to tell him "You don't have to," but, before he could hear or I could get the message across, Olive gave another, increasingly insistent tug on my shoulder, and I turned towards her. "It's nothing. Just my mom. Looking for my brother. Like usual."

Olive clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Just turn your phone off. It's like, your life shouldn't revolve around that guy. Or any guy."

"Yeah, not when it can revolve around us! Or, the sun. Unlike your parents' lives, which revolve around the s-o-n kind of son which is, not nearly as awesome as we are." Lyle pushed the milk back towards me, forcing me to take it and a step back instead of answering either of them.

Even now, when supposedly they were talking to me, about me, Olive and Lyle had ended up facing each other, instead. She shook her head at him. "Not helping, Ly."

"No, I'm super helpful. Just give me the phone, I can—" Lyle reached back towards me. I assume he'd meant to grab for one of my pockets, but I didn't stick close enough for him to check. Instead, I shifted the plastic bag up my wrist, took the phone out myself, and checked for new messages. There were two missed calls, and one new text from my mom on my lock screen. Again, the words stared me down, her panic escalating.

Mom: Thank you! Where are U? Still no Connor! Can you call him? PLEASE? We tried but no answer!

I was still processing mom's enthusiasm while Olive and Lyle bickered in the background. I lowered the phone and raised my head, interrupting whatever the original topic had been with the more urgent fact that, as much as I'd rather deal with the sugar rush and too bright of lighting choices, I couldn't leave my mom like this. "It's fine. I just. I've got to go. My mom needs the car to look for him, I guess. It was really nice seeing you, we should-" do it again soon, was what I'd meant to say. Instead, I'd ended up letting out some kind of yelp in surprise when Lyle took the phone straight out of my hands and lifted it out of reach.

"You have his number? Your brother?" Lyle asked, like it was a normal time to ask a question.

I was too distracted jumping up once to try and grab the phone from him to bother answering that. When that failed, I settled for demanding it. "Give that back, Lyle. Now." Lyle just shook his head. "I need my phone, and to leave, now. I wouldn't have said I needed to leave if I didn't need to leave."

Lyle shook his head back, flipping those overgrown rainbow bangs in what had to be an intentionally dramatic sway. He poked across my touch screen and snickered. "Nice poop emoji after Connor. Good touch."

"Seriously, Lyle. I mean it. I need my phone. My mom's really freaking out."

Thankfully, Olive stood beside me, joining in. She kicked at Lyle's leg, forcing his attention so he could see her cross her arms in frustration. "Lyle, cut the crap and just give Zoe her phone."

Lyle tilted the phone away from the fluorescent lights, angling it down just far enough I could see he was looking at a map. He closed one eye and squinted before announcing, just as confidently as he had his supposed Slurpee flavor, "Connor's at the park. By the quarry."

"What does that—" I almost finished asking, but corrected myself to a better question. "How would you know?"

Lyle lowered the phone down, enough so that he could hand it back to me. He pointed along the screen, his index finger poking at a specific point that was glowing a lighter color than the rest of the map. "Ellison State Park. See the blip, there? The blinky spot in all that green stuff right next to the smaller blue stuff? That's his phone. I tracked it because you're on the same network. Your dad or some guy at the cell phone company probably had it installed already. So, abra kadabble. There he is."

"Abra… kadabble?" Olive repeated, not sure if she was confused or disgusted.

Lyle ignored both with a shrug. "Don't question magic, dude." He gave me a pat on the back, one which nearly made me rock forward into a wall. I corrected my posture before checking the phone again. "Anyway, just tell your mom where he is and then you can stay."

It didn't seem like the kind of thing Lyle, or, for that matter, anyone, would make up, but I couldn't picture why my brother would go to the park. He wasn't into wildlife, or anything that didn't involve a dark room, loud music and being angry all the time. Maybe he'd gone there to buy drugs? Either way, it would take longer for mom to get there than me. It wasn't that far. I could get her to calm down more if I went and got Connor myself.

Or I could get murdered in the woods. That would also solve the problem.

I tapped on the home screen button of my phone, opened the maps app, and clicked through for directions to the stone quarry at the park. I checked away from my phone just long enough to say "Thank you," and headed for the exit. "See you tomorrow."

The jingle bell tied to the top of the door chimed over Olive's voice as she shouted after me. "Wait, let us come with you! We're bored."

Lyle waved his arm over the top of Olive's head, twice as fast and even more frantic. "Or pretend to let us both go, and then ditch her!"

Even as I stepped into my car, alone, I could still see them arguing with each other. Olive gave Lyle the lightest possible smack on the arm, then shook him by the shoulders. Behind the smudged glass, I was pretty sure she was telling him she hated him, and that he was grinning proudly back while telling her she was welcome to do that. From here, it looked the way that people thought siblings were supposed to look—mocking, but still caring. Nice for them.

Then, I drove off to find mine.


	4. 116 Days Until

Yesterday, there'd been no sign of Connor Murphy. Granted, I had no idea what Connor's class schedule looked like. Well, aside from the obvious fact we shared last period study hall. I was, for at least as long as I lived without getting retrograde amnesia, never going to forget we shared last period study hall.

Aside from that, I didn't really know where Connor was supposed to be, or if he was or wasn't in those places. His locker wasn't near mine, and we weren't in the same homeroom. I would've known if we were. Not to say that I'd ever deliberately paid attention to Connor before this, but, Connor wasn't exactly the kind of person you had to be specifically looking out for to notice. He was more the kind of person you had to pretend you didn't see even when you did. Maybe, I'd thought with hope I didn't really have, we only had the same study hall and Tuesday/Thursday AP English. Maybe, this was normal, to not see him.

I thought that, yet, every time I'd see someone who could have been or could have spoken to Connor since Tuesday, my pulse leapt into my throat. At one point, I'd spotted a figure in an army jacket with long brown hair, and I'd knocked myself against a locker to get out of the way. When I'd finally stopped ducking, I saw it was Julie Holtzer. I hadn't even noticed her hair bow.

There was no sleeping. No eating. Every nerve in my body was ready for flight, fight or freeze. There was a pretty clear preference in my system for options one and three over two, but, that didn't exactly matter. Excluding the false flags—which I was about as good at planting as I was at spotting—there wasn't much to go on. For someone almost everyone liked to gossip about the same way people liked to complain about most politicians, Logan Paul, or, say, the recent escape of an elephant from the zoo, today, Connor was practically a ghost.

Maybe, for once, I was lucky. Except, I'm never lucky, unless you count being unlucky as a kind of luck. But, without anything to go on except uncertainty, I just had to go. Keep on moving, stuck with the eternal sense that each new step was the one which would break the floor, my remaining bones, or my dignity.

Who was I kidding? I had no dignity. What I had was a sweat-dampened, crinkled doctor's note still excusing me from gym. I'd passed it to the gym coach before class started, again, and slinked solemnly off to the bleachers.

The only thing I hated more than using that doctor's note was knowing that I was still technically in gym. It smelled in gym, even worse than most things did. The lights were brighter. No one, not even janitors, knew how to wash those foam mats on the wall, because they were covered in this sort of scratchy faux leather plastic stuff that looked like you could hose it down, except it had just enough holes in it to still retain the stench of fifteen-year-old shame and musty dodge-balls.

With nothing else to do, I tried to focus on my letters. Key word tried. I spent most of fourth period gym staring at the blank, ruled paper of what I'd imagined my letter should have looked like if my world wasn't one wild Connor Murphy sighting away from imminent implosion. By the end of class whistle, I had something close to coherent. I skimmed the words, my pen tapping against the second to last empty row of the page, reviewing my handiwork. Or, hand writing work.

 _Dear Evan Hansen,_

 _Today is going to be a good day, and here's why. Today is not the first day of school. Or the second. The pleasantries and introduction and weaving sideways because you thought the classroom numbers went up the hall on the second floor instead of down, that's over. From here on, you get to really establish your new routine for the year. That's good. Comfortable._

 _The first day is the hardest part. Other than exams, and there are a few weeks before any of those can start, so. All you have to do now is repeat what you already did. About a hundred and eighty times or so before you graduate. After that, it's your choice where to go. And for now, you don't have to think about it. You just have to go to English, then Physics, then listen to the teachers, and listen to yourself._

And then, an explosion. Not a literal explosion, but, a voice. It was basically the same thing for how it coursed through me so completely. "What the hell are you doing?"

No.

No.

"Nothing!" I might have shouted. My pulse was too loud to tell. My arms clutched the notebook, retracting myself so quickly inwards that I smacked my shoulder on the next highest bleacher. I swallowed the pain into reflexive denial. "Writing. Writing nothing."

"Really? Because, and maybe I'm crazy, here, but, last I saw, those look like words," He answered.

My head snapped up, focusing on the source. A guy with glasses slightly too big for his face and confidence too big for both was standing by the bottom bleacher. His name was Jared Kleinman, and he was the closest person I had to a friend. From the way he stared up at me like he was still the one looking down, it said a lot about my non-existent friendships.

"Look. Evan," Jared pointed at me. I watched his finger more than I watched Jared, if only because it was moving and I couldn't really help it. "You can't text me on Wednesdays. I told you. It's DND night. I'm dungeon master, and our mage was right in the middle of a saving throw while fighting this hoard of elemental giants. I've been designing this campaign for weeks. Wait, why am I explaining this?" the 'to you' was implied.

I shrugged into my notebook, unsure of what he wanted me to do to respond. The shrug must have been enough, because Jared moved his finger a little closer to my face for emphasis. "Look. Just don't text me on Wednesdays unless your mom needs my parents, and when she tried, both their phones were dead enough to become undead if I planted them in a pet cemetery. Or, if you do, at least don't text 'dot dot dot' at me."

"Ellipses, you mean?"

"Yeah, those. It looks like you're still typing. Or you forgot that sentences usually include words." Jared rocked back on the heels of his sneakers, casually expanding the already moderate distance between us. He flicked the direction of his pointing over his shoulder. "So, do you want to tell me what you were trying to tell me before you totally freaked out? Or can I go use the bathroom before English?"

"It's not—" that easy. Not like that. Not something I can say at school, where anyone could walk out of the locker room and hear me admit to writing stolen letters to myself. Any of those sentences would've been fine. They were all so fine, in fact, that I couldn't pick any of them. Instead, what spurted out me was a rushed, doubtful "Nothing." That, and a little bit of spit that I really hoped Jared didn't notice.

"It's not, nothing?" Jared repeated.

My right hand crept away from the notebook, up the side of my neck. Already, I could feel a layer of grime too intense not to itch. I scratched repeatedly, pulling my collar down as I insisted. "I mean, it's. It's not a thing. No thing. Completely. Seriously unimportant."

"Okay. Well. Have fun with your nothing about nothing." Jared reached for the headphones around his neck. He pulled them up and started to turn away.

"Wait. I." I stepped forward on the bleachers, swaying in his general direction without standing up. My right arm outstretched to flail at his without being anywhere close to reaching him.

The urgency in my voice, the will to speak—all of that left as soon as Jared turned with a possibly impatient "What?"

No options. No excuses. No time to do anything but ask, and hope Jared's bladder was a lot smaller than his curiosity when I blurted out. "Have you seen Connor?"

"Not when I can help it. Why? Or is that another non-thing you have going on?" His foot tapped up while he waited, probably matching a rhythm from music I couldn't hear.

My leg shook on the bleacher, matching Jared's without the song. "That's a—" complicated question. I paused, my throat locking up for anything more substantive than a staggered "yep," except, the second I said it, I knew that wasn't enough. The air was still stale. Jared was staring. He needed-no, deserved-an explanation. Except, we were at school. Other students were coming out of the locker room. There wasn't time to say it and be sure no one else would hear.

I was so busy crouching and shaking my leg that I didn't realize my notebook was slipping until Jared was staring straight at my note. A trace of a laugh started to creep up his nose, then into his words. "Is that your name? On a letter?" Shit.

I scrambled off the bleacher, clutched my notebook to my chest, and scrambled to leave. I slipped out the side step, my voice raising with my feet while I rushed through the first goodbye I could sputter. "Have fun peeing."

It wasn't until I'd already said it, that I realized I'd just told Jared to _have fun peeing_.

I tried to turn around and correct myself. My feet stalled by the door out, holding my ground. My brain rushed through a bunch of options, scrambling them together into a verbal mush. "I'm sorry. Wait, that's not, the. I didn't mean it, or like that. I—"

By the time I really focused on where I was speaking, I noticed the emptiness beside the bleachers. No one was there. While I was busy failing, Jared had already left. Fight, flight, and freeze. No surprise which one won. Again.

I'd made it out into the hallway, tucked my head down, and let myself be swallowed into the crowd of aimful people marching around. Well dressed, composed teenage worker ants, all with a purpose, clique, and place to be. How everyone knew the halls this quickly after school started, who knew? Or, well, I guess they knew. I didn't know. Was that the point? It was, probably.

Before I could consider anything more, my pointless stalling was overtaken by a voice on the speaker. At first, it was just a jolt. A paddle to the chest, lifting my heels from the padding of my New Balances into the air, without me hearing a single word of it. Then, the speakers crackled. The announcement repeated. Slower. Crisper. Unimagined. "Will Evan Hansen please report to the principal's office?"

And everything went silent.


	5. 115 Days, 23 Hours

I'd never been inside the principal's office, before.

I'd stood outside of it, a couple of times—like if there was a permission slip to hand in to the secretary, or if my mom was signing me out for a dentist appointment. Otherwise, there had never been a reason for me to be here. Until today, I guessed. Or, I knew. I wish I didn't have to.

Within the front office, there was a door. A series of names were posted on metallic plaques beside it—Mr. Howard, the principal, and Mrs. Yang, the vice-principal. The blocky text and gleaming presentation of both clashed with the fingerprint smudges over the letters. It was sort of like the people who bore those names on those plaques were supposed to have prestige, but they'd been stuck in a sort of sanitized, off-white minimum-security prison. Except, the prisoners didn't have uniforms. And wardens had to know, like, calculus or biology. And the food wasn't free.

Maybe I shouldn't have been comparing school to prison.

Anyway, I'd been stalling outside the door to the office for so long that either the door or my eyes were shaking. The frame seemed to vibrate, emitting a sort of speckled halo around the edges. I had to open the door. That, or pretend I didn't hear the announcement to begin with. Except, that wasn't an option, either. I was already here. Shit.

When I opened the blind-obscured door to the front office, I'd expected a noise. My pulse spiked in anticipation, and then, nothing.

I took a step in, then another. The receptionist's desk was empty, and the door to Mr. Howard's office was closed. The sole sign of life or motion was the butterfly screen saver drifting across Mrs. Yang's desktop. Was this a prank? It sounded like a prank. Except, no one would prank me, other than maybe Jared, and I'd literally just seen Jared, so, it wasn't him. I had to wait. I should wait.

I slouched forward, collapsing into myself. I was sure I was choking on my breath when, suddenly, Mr. Howard's door nudged open. The impact shook me, sort of like a thunderclap from lightning that struck directly in front of my nose—instant, dangerous and very, completely wrong.

I flattened my hand against my thigh. My eyes snapped shut for way longer than they should have. When I opened them again, I saw a woman. It wasn't Mr. Howard because... Well, first, because it was a woman. It probably wasn't Mrs. Yang, either, unless Mrs. Yang had suddenly dropped thirty pounds, gotten extensive facial reconstruction surgery, and traded her sea glass earrings out for pearls and a copper bob. Whoever this woman was, she was dressed like a store mannequin outside one of those boutiques at the mall my mom would complain were too 'matronly', but, her clothes didn't age her, really. They just made her look serious.

The woman stepped to the side of the door, holding it open for someone. Her voice was softer than expected, almost quiet, when she said to "come in. Please."

A sudden itch stabbed through my eyes and nose. I raised my palm and turned away, to scrub my eyes and force the feeling down. When I looked back up, she was still standing there, watching. My stomach plummeted enough to make up for it. No choice left. I had to talk.

"Excuse me. I. Uh…" The itching dug a little deeper. I lowered my head and closed my eyes, trying to blink it off, instead. "I was told to go to the principal's office? Mr. Howard's office. Is he, or," I waved at the door, as if my limp, floppy hand was any better at articulating than the rest of me.

The woman let out a breath, then stepped a little deeper into the room. "He thought maybe it would be better if we. Well. If we had a little privacy. Please, sit down."

I wanted to ask who she was. I should have. It wasn't a weird question, usually, unless it was someone you were supposed to know, and legitimately I didn't know who she was, so it would have been fine. It would have been, except I spent so long stalling in the door frame considering how to ask her, that she must have given up. I'd been opening my mouth in what would have been a mangled word attempt when she spoke first. "I take it you're Evan? I'm Cynthia."

With my mouth still open, I rushed to adjust as quickly as possible in an automatic response of. "Oh. Hi. I'm Evan." I was halfway through when I realized that made no sense. I lowered my hand, and my shoulders, gulping to correct myself. "I mean—"

"It's okay," she interrupted, her words level, saturated with false patience. "I'm Connor's mom."

My throat lurched. The half of an uncooked cherry pop tart I'd forced down this morning before the bus to prove to my mom that, yes, I was eating, threatened to burst back out. I swallowed it down. "Oh. Oh, of course. You're. This is about. The thing."

"He already told you?" she asked, surprised. Surprised, but not angry.

"Wait, what?" I wrapped my right hand around the top of my left, hoping to hide the shake in both. "No? Probably? I mean. I don't know what he said, but, I haven't. Wouldn't." The longer I tried to explain, the worse I was at explaining. My eyes shifted to meet hers for just long enough to confirm she was staring at me before I looked away, ducking inwards. "I just. He. He hasn't been here for two days. So, something. I. I'm sorry?"

I'd almost made it through swallowing when, suddenly, something warm hit my back. My neck jerked back, my eyes widened, all fixing on the spot. The woman—I mean, Cynthia—put her hand on my shoulder. She stepped closer to me, blocking the door. I froze. I transfixed on her face, first in horror, and then because there was nowhere else to look.

"No. No, you don't have to apologize. I assumed. I shouldn't have," she corrected. Her eyes were a little glossier, now. Reddened. I hadn't noticed before, but, when she was this close, it was hard not to see the red veins turning the whites of her eyes to pink. "I don't want to impose, either. I know how kids don't like to have parents involved. But, considering the circumstances, Connor's father and I talked and, well. We thought it would be better if you heard this from one of us."

Shit.

Was I expelled? Restraining order? Restraining order might make sense. Zoe was their daughter, and, I was, well... I was myself, and Connor would have told them what happened. They had every reason to want me nowhere near her.

Before she could try to apologize, I interjected, to show I understood. "No, you don't. Don't have to. It's fine. To tell that. And. And I'm fine." I rolled my shoulder away from her hold and stepped back into the wall. Okay, admittedly, stepped was the wrong word. I hit the wall, hard enough to make Mr. Howard's framed 'teacher of the year' plaque slant crooked.

Cynthia took another step towards me, arms outreached. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I denied reflexively.

"Do you want to sit down?" she checked, still upset, but forcefully calm. " It might be better if you sit down."

It might be better if I suddenly had a seizure and no longer had to have this conversation. Since that one wasn't looking like such a great option, I nodded. She waited, watching closely—too closely—until I'd settled on the couch. My right hand fell back onto my lap, tugging my shirt down, again. Only then did she take a seat across the hall.

The silence stretched. Too long, in fact. I wasn't about to crack it, though. If I did, I wouldn't know what to say to defend myself. If I even could.

I wasn't sure how long it was before Cynthia finally raised her voice. When she did, she was so strained that her voice cracked halfway through the sentence. "Maybe he told you already, but, Connor. Well, Connor. He's in the hospital."

Wait, what? What did that have to do with anything? Was I supposed to say something? She was silent, now. I had to say something.

All I had was "I'm sorry." I wasn't sure how I sounded, other than quiet. She didn't move. Nothing was moving.

I swallowed. My grip on my arm tightened. I wasn't sure if I could ask, if it was okay, but, there didn't seem to be another option, so, I had to. "What happened? I mean, that he...?"

She spoke over me before I could finish. "He hasn't told you?" She said, like she was surprised. Why would she be surprised?

"…No?" I meant to ask something after that, but, I couldn't get through the words.

It was hard to tell from the bow in her head, but, from here, I thought the red of her eyes was darkening. She shut them tight, tears leaking from the edges. She paused to dab her eyes before, finally, the words came out. "Connor tried to. To harm himself."

Cynthia looked down at her hands, folding them together. The page in her lap slipped along her legs. She pulled the paper back up into position, into her line of sight. "He wrote this, for you. Before. If you'd like to read it. He had it with him, at the time, when he..." She couldn't finish the thought.

For a second, I wasn't me. Every part of this scene, of me on the couch, fell into a distant blur. I could see her grip the piece of paper and offer it to me. My hand stayed glued to my lap, weighted down, numb. "I'm sorry. I." My eyes drifted across the blur of letters on the page. It started with my name.

Wait. No.

Wait.

That was the letter. My letter. Connor's mom was handing me my letter.

"Wait, this isn't—" My mouth rushed again, trying to get a head start on the rest of me.

"It's okay, Evan. Take your time. Take it, if you're ready." She extended the letter further towards me, onto my lap.

My right hand released my left arm, the tremor shaking through both. I forced my fingers around the edge of the paper, to accept it. Sure enough, it was the same message. _Dear Evan Hansen, it turns out today wasn't an amazing day…_

I swallowed through the panic. There wasn't time to panic. Except, that didn't keep me from panicking. I raced to speak, the speed and the volume all spiraling from my control, as long as I could say something. "No, not like. It's just. This isn't Connor's."

"You two, you can talk to us. We understand. I know that never sounds right from parents, but, really. We do,"

"I know. Except. This. It's not." There was no space to think, or breathe, or do anything except stress this one point hard enough for her to understand "This isn't Connor's."

She paused, the silence sinking down. "He tried to say the same thing."

"Yeah. Because it's true," I didn't know how else to say it, so, I repeated it. The mantra of the obvious. "He didn't. Wouldn't," have done anything like that unless it was an accident. Or, to frame me, because I was the last straw.

I mean, if I was the last straw, I wouldn't blame him. He thought I was mocking him. How pathetic would anyone have to be to get mocked by Evan Hansen? It was good revenge, too, to out the only thing I might have still had left to get me through the day as me being a total creep.

But, Cynthia wasn't hearing that. "You don't have to lie to me, Evan. Please," she pleaded.

"No, I, really. I didn't," I flinched. "I don't know Connor."

"Your cast. It's his handwriting. I know he thinks I don't, but, I know my son." Her hand outstretched a little farther, taking mine, and the letter, in her grasp. "I don't know how things are for you, or if you're busy. But, it would mean a lot, I think, if you could stop by to visit."

I swallowed. "No. I don't think, that, the. That's a good," idea. It might have been a good way for me to erase that last smudge of a delusion of self-respect I'd been clinging to, though.

I had no chance to say that, first because I lacked the spine, to, and then, because she spoke, instead. "He wants to see you."

My face wrinkled in every direction possible. "He, what?"

"He's been asking for you. For his friend."

That couldn't be right. No way. Definitely. Something was mixed up, and not just the letter—unless Connor wanted a good chance to beat me up. There were lots of weapons in hospitals. Things no one really thought of: IV cords. Syringes. A bed pan and some apple juice, even, if you really thought about it.

I wanted to pull away, but, I didn't. The weight of freezing in place, when fight and flight weren't an option, settled into a dissociative haze. Her fingers stroked the top of my hand repeatedly, trying to project a comfort she couldn't give herself. Her touch felt the same way that pins and needles would—not from acupuncture, but from sitting on a limb the wrong way for so long, it could no longer function.

"I'm sure you're busy, but, if you can make it, we're at Willoughby General. Room four thirty-three. Any visiting hours, please, come. It would mean so much to me. To Connor." She squeezed her hand around mine, one last time, as if trying to pass a sense of hope to me. Instead, my gut found a new spot to sink to.

"To Connor?"


End file.
